


Tides of Men

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia (1990)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stress of the conference gets overwhelming.<br/>Lawrence goes looking for the desert in a marble hotel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tides of Men

**Author's Note:**

> I've drawn some of my details from the movie "Lawrence  
> of Arabia," since "A Dangerous Man" implies more of the  
> characters' history than it states outright, and I've presumed  
> that Sharif Ali and the Feisal who appears in "Dangerous" are to  
> all intents and purposes the same person. A couple of other  
> details come from John Mack's book "A Prince of Our Disorder" and  
> Lawrence's own "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom."

The night he came out of Deraa, he was almost too cold to move.    
Cold all over, really, and he ought to be grateful for that,  
because even he can't imagine how much it would have hurt  
otherwise.  He'd spent seventeen hours in hell, and suddenly he  
was being carried into a cave out of an English Sunday school  
Bible.  The long rocks of Syria had simply drawn back and given  
them shelter.  Sheepskins inside, smelling like warm animals and  
old leather.  

At another time, he would have been dazzled by the beauty of the  
view.  New light on the desert, and it was cold.  Feisal was at  
his shoulder, alternately rocking him and wrapping him in more  
layers of desert-grown wool, all the time crooning and begging  
him to stop shaking.  And he had tried.  It wasn't his place to  
be so fragile.  He was going to have to rise up and lead an army  
in as few days as possible.  When he remembered how to move.    
When he remembered how to speak.

After the sun rose fully, the others went to stand guard outside  
and left Feisal with him.  He learned, later, that they  
understood what had happened, maybe better than he did, and that  
none would question him on it.  As they would never question  
those hours he spent keening wordlessly into Feisal's chest.    
He'd believed, truly, that if he raised his face out of that  
black wool shelter, that he would be unmade by God or Allah or  
some unnamed higher power.

Sometime in the cold of that day, Feisal kissed him.  His lips  
were hard, windburnt from their weeks in the desert and as dry as  
you would expect the lips of a desert prince to be.  They touched  
his temple first, and then his forehead.  Only after another hour  
of silence did they brush his lips.  In that instant, the other  
man was curled almost completely around him, blocking out the sun  
and wind and judgement of the men outside.  And not demanding  
anything.  Just acknowledging.  

Feisal took Lawrence out into the wind once.  Dressed him in  
white silk.  Made him pure and holy, worthy to lead the Bedou  
against the Turks.  And he laughed, and in that instant, he was  
perfectly happy.

Lawrence thinks about that now as he pads through these icy  
French halls.  One instant of purity is perhaps the most he is to  
be allowed, but he clings to it.  He misses the desert.  He's  
been back in Europe for almost a year; his sunburn is gone; he  
looks the part of the English officer.  It's only occasionally  
that he starts to fragment.  The moment when Meinertzhagen  
referred to him as a pleasure boy was a nasty shock, and it's been  
taking him apart for most of the past day.

The Abyssinian opens the door to Lawrence the instant before he  
raises his hand to knock.  Huge and unspeakably graceful, that  
one.  He smiles gently and waves toward the inner room.  In the  
outer chamber, there are a few retainers curled up with their  
blankets, and it reminds him of the desert, where they all slept  
where they could.  A strange effect in this palace of marble, but  
it calms him.

"Lawrence?"  Feisal, at the door of his bedroom.  He's in one of  
his hybird moments -- his expression belongs to the war, and the  
brittle nights outside Damascus, but he's wrapped in one of the  
better smoking jackets he's acquired on this particular Parisian  
jaunt.  Warm silk.  Cigarettes making an edge of sharp darkness  
around him.

"I --"  What, exactly?  "I couldn't sleep.  I thought you might  
want company."

Feisal examines him for a moment, then, "Of course.  Come in.    
This is your home as much as mine."  A small irony in a place so  
alien to both of them, but he doesn't comment on it.  "[Thank  
you.  You can sleep if you wish.]" The words are Arabic, and not  
addressed to him.  The Abyssinian nods and settles himself,  
extinguishes the light a moment later.

"Don't stand there like a thief.  Come in and sit down.  Take off  
your tie -- you look like you might choke on it."

The room is more European than the space outside.  Two wingback  
chairs by the fire, Louis Quatorze dressing table, the four-  
poster bed which seems to be ubiquitous, at least for the people  
who count.  Not him, obviously, but it's a necessary mark of  
respect for the son of the man whose army presently holds  
Damascus.

"Don't look at me like that.  I didn't decorate this monstrosity.    
Are you going to sit down?"  Feisal is already kneeling by the  
fire, and after a moment Lawrence realizes that he's boiling tea  
over it.  The grin his friend gives him when he turns back is  
decidedly crooked.

"I'm trying to imagine you doing that at Oxford," Lawrence says,  
and sits, finally.  After a glance at Feisal's stocking feet, he  
removes his own shoes and slides down to sit cross-legged on the  
carpet.  Feisal glances at him and nods.  They both remember  
carpets.  Crippled men were weaving them on the streets of  
Damascus when they marched in.

"I took it up there.  It's in keeping with my image as the wild  
man of the desert.  Also, it gave permission to the others.  We  
could all sit together in the common room and boil tea on the  
open fire, and they weren't barbarians because it was my idea."    
Hands him a cup and gestures to the sugar bowl on the hearth.    
"Why can't you sleep, or is that really what's wrong?"

Lawrence is disgusted to find himself shaking again.  There've  
been nights when he wished that he were only shell-shocked.    
Then, at least, people would stop asking him why he looks so  
awful.  And he wouldn't fragment like this for no reason.  Loud  
noises would reduce him to a sobbing wreck, but at least he'd be  
able to recognize the source of his breakdown.

"I don't know.  Yes.  I mean, I did try to sleep.  Someone made a  
stupid remark, and it threw me."

Raised eyebrows.  Coffee eyes under them so deep he could swim  
even in their shallow edges.

"Oh, just about my looks.  About looking like a girl.  It's rot,  
of course, and he meant it as a joke.  It might not have bothered  
me if he hadn't been sitting so close by.  Only."  Only nothing.    
Only.

"It's your curse, I suppose.  Every great man is supposed to have  
one.  Arrange not to be born pretty, next time."

"Thank you.  That's terribly helpful."

He's surprised to find that he does feel better, though.  The  
gaslight and the fire have reduced the bedroom to the intimacy of  
a tent, and they're where they've been before, sitting opposite  
each other in the first quiet hours of the night.

He's been here, too, when Feisal leans forward and kisses him.    
His lips have changed a little.  They're softer, damper, they  
taste like sugar and sharp tea.  They still ask nothing from him,  
only reassure and give.  Feisal's tongue brushes his lips,  
presses in just a little to examine the surface of his front  
teeth, then retreats, and the kiss breaks and they're sitting  
across from each other again, expectant.

His decision, then.  Feisal's expression is only watchful.  But  
it doesn't reject him when he sets his cup on the hearth tiles  
and leans forward and touches this man in a way he hasn't touched  
a half-dozen people in his whole life.  Even the kisses he's  
given his family have always been dry, delicate things dropped on  
a cheek.  This is warmer, wetter, closer to passionate than  
anything he's attempted before.  And Feisal accepts it, rocks  
back a little to accept Lawrence's sudden weight against his  
thighs and then steadies, supporting them both and gently rushing  
the short blond hairs that curve around Lawrence's ears and trace  
back to the base of his skull.

Other kisses, after that.  Several on his jaw, and one on each  
cheekbone, just below the eye socket.  On his throat, just above  
the unreasonable stiffness of the necktie he's forgotten to  
remove.

He used to lie in the dark, and his skin would crawl.  And Feisal  
would come silently through the camp and settle beside him, and  
to the army it looked like leaders planning strategy, not the  
prince holding the Englishman together.

Clever fingers loosen and remove his tie, unbutton and lift away  
his collar.  Soft lips against the newly exposed hollows of his  
throat.

"You might sleep better among friends tonight.  Do you want to  
stay?"

"God, yes."  And he laughs.  He's sprawled in an undignified line  
with his feet still back by his tea-cup and all his weight in the  
prince's lap.  He needs to be better than that.  Pulls back and  
straightens.  Once he's firmly in balance, drops the softest,  
driest kiss he can onto Feisal's forehead, just between his eyes.    
And stands and undresses.

At some point, he's aware of Feisal behind him on the bed,  
already naked.  The smoking jacket is folded with geometric  
precision in one of the unused chairs, and the pajamas lie in a  
looser heap on top of it.  Lawrence is only naked to the waist,  
and still dealing with that much exposure.  He doesn't like to be  
naked, really, hasn't for well over a year now.  He can feel  
Feisal's eyes probing his skin.

He has a half-dozen stories that he uses to explain the scars,  
the most plausible of which is that he was thrown by a camel into  
barbed wire.  Though it's not absolutely believable, the horror  
of the image is usually enough to make his questioner flinch and  
change the subject.  Even Feisal hasn't seen the damage in its  
permanent form.  And he's looking now with the tense silence he  
reserves for battle and other cold moments of rage.

Lawrence stands suddenly, and slides off his trousers and  
underclothes together.  His cufflinks, which were in his lap, hit  
the floor so loudly that for a half-moment he looks around for  
gunfire.  Then flinches and laughs at himself, and turns naked to  
face his prince, who is not laughing, only looking at him, and so  
graceful and unashamedly naked that he should be preserved in  
some piece of art for archeologists to dig up in a millennium and  
marvel at.

"Lie down.  You're going to freeze in this chill."  Softly,  
almost a tease, and he's able to respond to it, kneel on the bed  
and the settle on his side, facing the other body.  The hand on  
his shoulder startles him, though.  "Lie flat for a minute?"

He flinches, flashes back to things he'd rather not remember.  "I  
don't think I can."

"Shh.  Trust me.  I would never injure you, I promise."  The  
fingers massage his shoulder; he relaxes into the touch and  
gradually lets himself slide forward onto his belly, raising his  
arms at the same time to pillow his head.

Feisal traces the lattice of scars.  He's sitting up, curled in  
on himself a little in the cold, with one knee tucked up to his  
chin.  Touches lightly, reading the agony that each one  
represents and the horror that underlies them.  Acknowledges,  
finally, that if Lawrence broke, then perhaps he had good reason.    
And bends, kisses the long spine, lays his cheek against it.

The cold drives him down, though, eventually.  He settles on his  
side with Lawrence pressed against his belly and buries them both  
under the mass of satin comforter that the French have deemed  
appropriate for the emissary of a minor war to the conference on  
a major one.

There are places he's hidden.  Caves.  Conference rooms.  The  
huge open swell of the desert, where he was just another man  
muffled to the eyes and swaying with the motion of his camel.  
He's too aware of how close he's been to cracking every time he  
smiles.  But in this darkness, not even Feisal can see him.  The  
lights are dead, and the fire is quieter, sparking only  
occasionally in the grate.  And if he needs to weep a little,  
finally, for just himself, he can.

Long dark fingers are still there, brushing the back of his head.    
Comforting.  He suspects that Feisal is just a little pleased to  
have Lawrence relying on him, rather than the other way round,  
but he can't bring himself to begrudge that pleasure.  He needs  
this too badly.  

Needs it even more when he rolls to his side and Feisal shifts to  
accommodate him.  The long planes of their bodies fit suddenly,  
like a child's puzzle coming together, and he gasps.  He hadn't  
realized that he was aroused, but the brush of the other man's  
hip against his groin is a quick, ecstatic, and utterly  
unexpected pleasure.  He leans infinitesimally forward to catch  
Feisal's lips in the dark.  Withdraws the distance of a breath  
and runs the tip of his tongue over them.  Gasps again as clever  
fingers insinuate themselves between his legs and stroke him, run  
up his thighs and cradle his scrotum for a moment, stroke over  
the tiny hole between his buttocks, and he flinches at that,  
doesn't unclench until Feisal's touch has removed itself to the  
safer territory between them.

He can share in that, at least.  It's an uncomplicated touch,  
even with the danger of their wrists tangling.  His hand curls  
gently around Feisal's erection, and Feisal's around his, and  
they can kiss and stroke each other, unhurriedly.  Always in the  
other man's  touch the imperative to relax, be safe in this  
chilled darkness, imagine that the hollow room has somehow  
transformed itself into one of the tents he lived in throughout  
the desert campaign.

His orgasm is a surprise: quick, sharp, almost painfully intense.    
He stills in Feisal's one-armed embrace and drifts, only comes  
back to himself when he realizes that the other man is trembling,  
still on the edge and trying not to frighten him.  And he's  
suddenly angry, both at his own fragility and Feisal's gentle  
treatment of it.  The kiss he presses against the dark mouth is  
rough, and his hand tightens, works the hard flesh with a touch  
that he might consider brutal at a different moment.  Not fair,  
but effective.  He wraps an arm around Feisal's body, shaking off  
the embrace he was offered a moment ago, and kisses him, hard,  
again, to swallow the scream that wells out as he comes.

In the aftermath of it, they're both panting, and there's a  
moment of dangerous anger between them.  Rage at being used, at  
being indulged, before they both manage to release it and ease  
closer to sleep.

He's never been touched so intimately or for so long at one time,  
except by his captors during those hours, and he wonders if  
Feisal knows that.  Wonders whether the other man would count  
this as lost virginity.  Whether Lawrence should.  He hasn't felt  
really clean since the morning he ventured into Deraa to scout  
its fortifications.  Not even now.  But, for the moment, he's  
peaceful, and he doesn't expect that he'll be able to ask more  
than that from the universe anytime soon.

Into his hair, Feisal whispers, "Come hunting with me tomorrow.    
Show me something of your country.  I'm so sick of council  
rooms."

"It's not my country."

"It's not so different.  I remember England.  There were  
wonderful fields.  There must be open country near here  
somewhere."  Another breath ruffling his blond hair.  "Come  
hunting with me.  Please."

"Alright."

Feisal smells like dry spaces, even in this European coldness.    
Lawrence likes to imagine that they are still in Damascus.  The  
day they took the city was brilliant, and wonderfully warm, and  
when he rode through the gates he wasn't afraid of anything.


End file.
